June breezed through the door wearing about an acre of sunglasses. They were big aviators that covered her face from her cheekbones to her hairline.
Behold the profile of the fashionably grieving black widow: She’s wearing a black dress cut to accentuate her curves. Plenty of cleavage pouring out. Her platinum hair is pinched back in a bun.
“Hi, Jim.” June said, dabbing her nose with a handkerchief … a black one, of course … as she settled into a chair.
“Hello, June. How can I help you?” I knew June well — much too well for someone in my profession, not that I’d be foolish enough to mention it. June provided steady business, and I didn’t want to rock the boat by asking too many questions.
Bowling accident, she offered anyway. Poor Charles. (more…)